


Recall

by De_Nugis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-05
Updated: 2012-02-05
Packaged: 2017-10-30 16:26:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/333719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/De_Nugis/pseuds/De_Nugis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's having a hard time telling what's real and what isn't, especially when it comes to some voicemails from Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Recall

**Author's Note:**

> This is a very late gift for an anonymous wisher at the insmallpackages exchange on LJ. The wish was for "Sam/Dean; voicemail fix-it & first time."
> 
> Thanks to Laurificus for the beta.
> 
> Note: this fic includes self-harm and hints of suicidal ideation, and spoilers through 7.10.

The funny thing is, Sam’s phone didn’t ring. Sure, he’d set it on silent before going into the record office, because he’s pretty sure the archivist is a few thousand years old and not human, but he’s not what they’re hunting right now. He should still have heard that dull buzz of mechanical bees, or felt it vibrate. But when he’s scanned what they need to his flashdrive and he’s ready to call Dean to pick him up, there’s one missed call gone to voicemail.

It’s Dean, of course. Not like they have much in the way of other contacts these days.

“Hey, Sam, think I’m done here. You didn’t turn off your phone, did you? The D’Amatos didn’t see anything. I’ll come by and we can eat and try the people across the street. Give me a call. Or maybe answer the damn phone to begin with. Don’t go spacing out on me again.”

Sam hits call. Dean’s phone rings through to voicemail. “Hey, it’s me, uh, yeah, sorry, didn’t hear the phone. I’m here. I’m outside.” He scans the parking lot in case Dean is there already. It’s a pain, having to remember what they’re driving this week. A battered Ford Escort. Green. He spots it at the end of the lot. Dean’s leaning against it in his leather jacket, drinking coffee. Sam hurries up to him.

“Dude, I just called you,” he says.

Dean pats his pocket. “Got it,” he says. “All saved. Hey, do you think they accidentally gave me your order here, Sammy?” and he passes Sam the cup. Must have ended up with a latte or something. Or tea. Dean hates tea.

Sam takes a sip, gags, spits blood out of his mouth, the cloying aftertaste of power. Droplets land on Dean.

“Jesus, Sam, have some manners,” says Dean.

Sam takes a step backward, looking at Dean, the amulet on his chest, the dark splotch of demon blood he’s fastidiously wiping off his jacket.

“You’re not Dean,” says Sam.

The key to the Carson place is in his pocket. He squeezes his hand around it till it digs into his flesh, till he feels the warm seep of blood. Dean flickers on and off, smirking like the Cheshire cat. Sam backs away from the car – it’s a Subaru station wagon now, nothing like their current ride – then turns and legs it down the block from the record office, ducks into a Dunkin Donuts. Like Lucifer is some creepy stalker he can avoid by sticking to well-lit public places. Like he can run from his own head. He pulls out his phone and dials Dean again, but he’s still getting voicemail. He hangs up without leaving a message.

OK, this is stupid. He can’t afford to lose it now, not when Dean is barely holding it together dealing with their _real_ problems, without having to cope with Sam’s imaginary devil stuff too. Sam breathes deliberately, runs a hand through his hair. He needs to get back to the records office, that’s where Dean is expecting to find him.

He buys a dozen assorted donuts, a peace offering or an alibi or something, and retraces his steps. There’s no green Ford and no smirking devil in the parking lot and no Dean hanging out impatiently by the record office door. Sam sits on the steps and eats the toasted coconut donut and then the white coconut one. No Dean. Sam takes out his phone again. One missed call gone to voicemail.

“Where the hell are you? Guard at the front desk said he’d seen some sasquatch dude running off like he’d got the devil after him. You having problems again? Didn’t think to mention it, did you, of course not, what am I saying, this is you we’re talking about. Mr. Secrets and Lies. Well, whatever. Just get it the fuck together and give me a call so we can work the case, cause I am not in the mood for this, Sam. People are dying, in case you haven’t noticed. If you’re not reliable, well, we may have a problem.”

Fuck. Fuck. Sam dials again. This time he can practically see Dean glancing at the phone and looking away with a snort. He’s probably gone ahead and gotten himself some dinner, mostly liquid, instead of chasing his head case brother all over town.

“Hi, Dean. Sorry. I think my phone’s broken or something. The ringer’s not working. Or the vibrate. I’m fine. I mean, yeah, got a bit messed up there, but I’ve got it under control. No big deal. I’m here at the record office. Sorry.”

“I’m sure he’ll buy that one,” says Lucifer. He’s lounging on the steps, dipping the cinnamon sugar donut in the paper cup of blood. At least he’s got his Nick face on.

“But it’s true,” says Sam. “I didn’t hear it. It didn’t ring. I would have picked up.”

“Of course,” says Lucifer. “You always take your calls. If you can. It’s not as though you wouldn’t pick up the phone when it’s your own brother. No matter what doubts he has about you, he should know that. Not as though you’d ever turn it off, tune him out, go joyriding with the devil. Just you and me, Sam.”

“I had to,” says Sam, “With Amy. He would have killed her. Wouldn’t have given her a chance, too dangerous. He was trying to do the right thing. She’d got it under control, she was managing. But I don’t know, I can’t tell. I can’t tell if it would’ve lasted.”

“Can the leopard change his spots?” Lucifer asks. He dips the donut again, shakes off the excess drops of blood. They spatter Sam’s hands. He rubs at them with one of the flimsy Dunkin Donuts napkins, but the color just sinks deeper into his skin. “Dean should know, shouldn’t he? One thing he might have learned from Eve. From that touching saga of mother love, Sam. Monsters mutate. But they don’t change. Once a monster, always a monster. Even if there are some you don’t want to kill. You know Dean doesn’t _want_ to kill you. But I think, Sam, I think he’s starting to see what it means, this new level of freak you’ve got to. Maybe he wishes by now that you’d stuck to the blood.”

“Shut up,” says Sam, “You’re not even real.” Except he’s pushed the key right through, so it’s come out the other side of his hand, an axis of pain, and Lucifer’s still there.

Lucifer sighs.

“No, I’m not,” he says. “And I’m sorry, Sam. I really am. It would be so much better if I were real. Dean’s figuring it out. He knows I’m you. A part of your mind. Not something he can cast out of you. Not something he can save you from. You’re part devil now. Fused, down there in the Cage. This monster only ends when you do. If you wanted to do something for your brother, Sammy, you’d make sure he didn’t have to be the one to end it. That’s what family does. There are some monsters it’s hard to kill. Some responsibilities Dean shouldn’t have.”

“Shut up,” says Sam, “Shut up, shut up, shut up.” He’s standing now, backed up against the wall of the building. Blood from his hand is soaking into the pocket, the wadded scrap of paper and crumpled twenty he’s got there. The shiny silver quarters and dull copper pennies are slick with it. The devil’s still there.

Lucifer shrugs, crumples his empty cup and throws it in the trash.

“I’m not even here,” he says, “Remember? I’m just part of your mind. On some level you know these things. You can run but you can’t hide, Sam. Oh, and you’ve got another message.” He tosses Sam his phone. It’s flashing one unheard message.

Sam ignores it, hits speed dial. Dean’s voice says “Sam,” and Sam starts babbling.

“Dean? Hey. I’m, uh, I’m still here. At the record office. Are you eating? I could kind of use your help, dude, if . . . ” but he tails off, because Dean’s voice is carrying on over his, the message playing.

“Sam? Sam, listen to me, you fucker. I’m done leaving you fucking voicemails. I know, OK? You’re not faking it as well as you think. All that daily practice you put in, lying, all that _I’m fine, Dean,_ ” – Dean’s voice goes prissy and mincing, dripping sarcasm – “You’d think you’d be better at it by now. But you’re not, are you? You’re not fine. You’re not even you. Half-Lucifer, right? Carrying him around, everywhere you go. You think I want to sit in a car next to that? You think I can risk it, letting that run around loose? I’m sorry, Sam, I am. But I gave you a second chance. I gave you a third. I gave you a goddamn fourth, Sam, and where’s it got us? Someone’s got to end this, and I guess it’s me, as usual. Doing the dirty work.”

Sam throws the phone away, as hard as he can, but Dean’s voice is still in his ears, tinny and senseless. Lucifer’s walking towards him, wearing his Dean face again. Or maybe it is Dean, this time, he might have gotten here already. Shaking his head sadly, pulling the gun from his waistband, his expression all exaggerated regret. He’s going to get himself arrested, doing it here, that’s just stupid.

Sam reaches for his own gun. This is Lucifer, it’s got to be, and if it’s part of his own mind, he can kill it, right? If he thinks he’s killed it, if he can believe that, then it has to follow the rules, it will have to be dead. Then maybe Dean won’t have to kill him. But there’s no gun. He doesn’t have one. Records office, right. They’ve got metal detectors at the City Hall. Sam lifts his empty hand instead, like he’s about to give a speech, something classic, Friends, Romans, countrymen. Something like that. Blood trickles down his wrist.

“Jesus, Sam,” says Dean’s voice. It’s coming from somewhere down the steps. But Dean’s not here. He’s off stage, leaving messages. Letting Sam know he knows.

“I know,” Sam says. “You don’t have to tell me. You don’t have to keep telling me. I’m, he’s right, I’ve known for a long time.”

“Easy, Sam.” The voice sounds closer, now. “I’m not gonna tell you anything, all right? I’ve just, I’m going to come up there, OK? Got to look at that hand. Just don’t, you know, throw phones at me or anything. You’ve got them pretty freaked out here, dude.”

Sam can see a few blurry faces behind the Dean with the gun. Yeah, they do look freaked. They’re not enjoying the play, this whole stupid melodrama, devil and monster.

Sam lowers his hand and watches Lucifer. The gun he’s holding with Dean’s easy expertise points straight at Sam’s heart. Sam shuts his eyes. Then a hand closes warm around his wrist. Sam lurches forward and breathes in. Dean. Flannel and Old Dutch detergent and a whiff of whisky and desperation. Sam grabs instinctively and the pain from his hand jolts sickeningly up his arm. He opens his eyes and it’s definitely Dean’s face. Lucifer never looks that scared. The gun is gone, put away for now.

“Jesus, Sammy,” says Dean again. “You good to get to the car? Cause I think we should get out of here before someone calls the police.”

“They won’t,” says Sam, “You haven’t killed me yet.”

Dean makes a noise like Sam punched him, but he didn’t, he isn’t fighting back. Sam’s crazy, he knows that. Dean’s got a better chance of being right these days, when it comes to what’s got to be killed.

“Come on,” says Dean, and Sam follows him down the steps and into the parking lot, toward the Kermit-green car. Some middle-aged woman with a kind face tries to follow, but Dean waves her off so decisively she turns back. The little knot of people on the stairs dissipates.

Lucifer is leaning against the car again. His eyebrows go up at their approach. He cocks his fingers at Sam and mimes pulling a trigger. Dean walks right past him and fishes around in the trunk. He straightens up, holding something, reaches for Sam’s arm. Sam jerks back, stumbles. No matter his intentions he’s trained for survival. It’s hard-wired, tripping him up at the worst times, the times when he’s supposed to die.

Dean lifts his hand cautiously, like Sam’s a growling animal, a monster. The thing he’s holding is a roll of gauze.

“Whoa,” Dean says. “Take it easy. I’ve just got to wrap your hand. Don’t worry, I’m not going to try to pull that thing out or anything. I just want to wrap it so we can get you to the ER, OK?”

Sam looks at Lucifer, checking if he has any light to shed on what the hell Dean thinks he’s doing, bandaging Sam up on the way to execution. Lucifer just shrugs and winks out. Dean takes Sam’s wrist and loops gauze loosely around the hand, key and all, till it looks mummified.

“Why?” Sam asks him. “Why the ER? Kind of a waste of time, isn’t it?”

“Cause you’ve got a rusty old haunted house key stuck _right through your fucking hand_ , Sam,” says Dean. “No pulling it out with pliers and going on our merry way on this one. You’re gonna need antibiotics and a tetanus booster and shit. Just try not to get yourself locked in the psych ward, OK? We’ll think of some plausible key-through-hand story.”

Sam’s head is swimming and the sick, jagged pulse through his palm still isn’t grounding him like it’s meant to, it’s just making it harder to think. Lucifer keeps flickering in and out distractingly. He’s in the back seat right now, hands behind his head, feet propped on the window, looking at Sam impatiently, waiting for him to figure things out. Sam leans against the car and sorts doggedly through it. Going to the ER makes no sense. If Dean’s made up his mind he should stop dicking around and get it over with. Just be fucking logical about this. Dean sucks at pragmatism.

“After,” says Sam to Dean, “How about we go after? You can do it, you know, however, it doesn’t really matter, and take the body. People get stabbed or shot, that’s what they do, right? Take them to the ER, let the doctors declare them dead. Put them in those freezer drawers.”

Maybe they won’t even need the freezer. Lucifer will still be in there, somewhere in Sam’s cadaver, burning cold. Which, yeah, another thing.

“That would actually be a good idea,” Sam goes on, brain clicking through it, now, back on track. Though Dean is staring at him like he’s making no sense, like they’ve never made a plan before. “Because someone should check. The Lucifer part might not die right. It might come back.”

Or, if the part that was down in the Cage, the part that’s part Lucifer, dies, there’s the other Sam, waiting somewhere in the wings. Sam’s never been good at staying dead, even when Dean needed him to. This could be a nightmare, Dean’s own Tuesday, killing Sam again and again. No wonder he looks so strained and unhappy, can’t throw off his goddamn responsibility even now, when he knows what he’s got to do.

“I’m sorry, man,” Sam says.

And he means it, he really does. Even if he’s pissed at Dean for doing the damn death threat by voicemail thing again, at Dean making up his mind and then waffling, so fucking typical. Still, Sam’s got to admit that this sucks even more for Dean. He’s going to end up drinking a whole bottle of Jack and taking the car, the real car, off a cliff. Sam feels a dull echo of panic and grief at the picture, though he won’t be there. They’re going to put him in a drawer. He’ll be frozen all the way through by the time it happens.

He shouldn’t be scared, God knows there are worse fates out there, but he’s shivering, just at the thought of the cold.

“Sam,” says Dean, his voice dangerously gentle.

“Yeah,” says Sam, more or less. He’s shaking so hard now his teeth are chattering. It must be shock or something, the whole key through his hand thing catching up, because he’s not _that_ bothered. Dean opens the car door and pushes Sam down till he’s sitting awkwardly sideways on the passenger seat, legs stretched onto the black asphalt of the parking lot. Dean takes off his jacket, that dull blue canvas thing, not the old leather jacket the devil’s got now, and slings it over Sam’s shoulders.

“Giving you his jacket, that’s sweet,” says Lucifer. “Maybe he’ll buy you a last meal, too. What’ll you have, Sam? Beer under the stars? Juicy demon chick?” Sam shakes his head at him because Dean’s talking, too, he can’t listen to them both.

“OK,” Dean’s saying, “We’re still going to the ER. In five minutes I’m getting in this car and driving you to the fucking ER. But first you are going to sit here and get your shit together and tell me what the hell you’re talking about.”

Sam’s eyes flick to the back seat again. Lucifer draws a finger across his throat, a swift, vicious gesture, and then lays it across his lips.

“Sam,” says Dean, “Dude. Talk. To _me_ , OK, not to him. What the fuck is going on?”

The thing is, Sam’s not sure he knows any more. And he’s freaking Dean out, which is ironic, considering. He pinches the bridge of his nose, tries to get the stupid shaking under control. He can manage this.

“Look,” he says. “Can we establish first if the you killing me thing is still on? Cause I’m not sure I want to spend my last conversation giving you the guided tour of my fucked-up head.” Dean usually doesn’t like what’s in Sam’s head. Not that Sam can blame him.

“The _what_ thing?” Dean asks. His face darkens. He takes a step away from the car and then back, grabs Sam’s shoulder and shakes him sharply. “Is that what he told you? That I’m after you or something? Why the hell would you believe crazy shit like that? From the fucking prince of lies! Why would you listen to him?”

“I didn’t,” says Sam. “I don’t. It wasn’t him, it was you. I’m not talking about Lucifer. I’m talking about your voicemails. Don’t know why you always have to do this by voicemail.”

Dean shakes his head, not so much denial as like he’s trying to clear it. He’s got both his hands on Sam’s shoulders now and he shakes him again but this time it’s gentle, cajoling.

“Sam, listen, I don’t know what your goddamn imaginary devil friend told you, but I didn’t call. I didn’t leave any messages. I finished up the interview and came by to see if you were done with the records and you were out there on the steps, hyperventilating and throwing your phone at me and making, like, dramatic gestures with a key stuck through your damn hand.”

“It can’t have been Lucifer. He was there when you called,” says Sam, then realizes how stupid that sounds. Dean snorts.

“Yeah, your hallucination has a real solid alibi,” he says. “Look. Your phone’s still working. Check your messages. Look at the call log. I didn’t call, dude.”

Sam takes the phone from Dean’s hand. There’s a crack across the screen but the display is still functional. The last incoming call was last night. Dean. Burgers or rotisserie chicken. Then three saved messages – Sheriff Mills, an odd death near Boulder they were planning to check out next. Bobby, a couple months back, giving Sam the lowdown how to kill a Coco, his voice gruff and vigorous and gone. And the one from Dean, from three and a half years ago, the day that Sam wrecked everything.

“Listen to me, you blood-sucking freak . . .” Sam knows it by heart, doesn’t need reminding, but he’s kept it. He remembers resaving it, again and again, those eighteen months without a soul, a puzzling piece of data, worth holding onto. He’d thought about letting it die in back-up, afterwards, when he left his phone with Colt, but it’s important. In the end he’d downloaded it and kept on saving.

But there’s nothing from Dean today. Sam looks from his brother to the back seat devil.

“You wouldn’t be hearing it if you didn’t know he’s thinking it,” says Lucifer. “I’m you, remember? You’re the one who’s with him every day, seeing him look at you. You’re bound to pick up on things. If I’m telling you it would be better to end it before Dean has to, before he finally does what he said he would, you’re getting it from somewhere.”

It’s all so convoluted. Lucifer’s just in Sam’s head. Just Sam’s head messing with him. But the leviathan, the one who’d told Sam about Amy, he’d known. And he’d been in _Dean’s_ head. He’d known that Dean thinks Sam is nutballs, that he can’t be trusted. Dean proved it himself, with Amy: the monsters that can’t be trusted, they’ve got to be killed. Dean hasn’t been able to trust Sam, not for a long time.

“It’s not like you haven’t been here before,” says Lucifer. “Both of you. You’re always going to end up here.”

“You said, that first time, you said it was fair warning,” says Sam to Dean, “That I wasn’t me. And it’s still true. I never am. I’m never me. It’s not like we haven’t been here before. We always end up here.”

Dean jerks at that, like he took a bullet. Then he laughs uneasily.

“Come on, Sammy,” he says. “Fair warning? I ever decide the sideburns have taken over, I’m not going to notify you with a fucking voicemail. Of course you’re you. You’re just messed up right now, what’s real, what’s not.”

Dean deflecting with a joke. He’ll still be doing that when he pulls the trigger. But his expression is pleading. And, underneath that, scared. Sam clutches his hair with his good hand, trying to think.

“But that was real,” he says. “Before. Before Lucifer. Before I let him out. I wasn’t hallucinating then. You must remember.”

“I remember you acting like a complete shit, getting high on demon blood and not listening to a fucking word and running after that bitch Ruby. I remember wanting to beat the living crap out of you. And I remember STILL not wanting to kill you. Because you’re my fucking brother. I seem to remember telling you that, in fact. In a goddamn voicemail. He’s messing with you, Sam. He’s making you remember it wrong.”

“No,” says Sam, “No, I’m remembering it right. Wait.” He calls up voicemail, enters his password, holds the phone out to Dean. Dean frowns, puts it dubiously to his ear.

“Listen to me, you blood-sucking freak . . .” Sam plays it over in his head while Dean listens.

Dean listens to it once through, listens to it again. Then he takes the phone from his ear and stares at its cracked display like it’s a cursed object.

“No,” he says. He looks like he wants to shake Sam some more, but he doesn’t.

“No,” he repeats.

Then he drops the phone – it’s having a rough day, too – crouches by the car and grabs Sam’s face. His hands are warm and familiar along Sam’s cheeks, the sides of his head, though it’s been years since Dean touched him like this, like Sam might be hurt and he has to make sure of him. He holds Sam’s eyes, panicked and intense.

“Listen,” he says. “That, that stuff, that’s not what I said. That day, that’s not what I said. I said I was sorry. I said we were brothers. Those things on your phone, I never said them. I would never say them. Lucifer must have fucked with it somehow, changed it.”

“How?” says Sam. He’s shaking again, in Dean’s grip. “How could Lucifer change an old voicemail? That doesn’t make sense, Dean. He’s not real.”

“I told you, it would be so much better if I were,” says Lucifer.

“Ruby, then,” says Dean. “Or, no, Zachariah. God, fuck. He said you might need _nudging_. That bastard. Fucking angels. Everyone played us, Sam. But that wasn’t me. You’ve got to believe that. You can’t, you can’t walk around thinking I said those things. Christ, thinking I’d still say them. Saving them on your goddamn phone like some fucking talisman.”

Everything is falling apart around Sam. He’s a structure being demolished, silently, slow motion, walls hanging for a moment in thin air, collapsing into an obliterating puff of dust. But Dean is still here.

“Please, Sam,” he says. Willing Sam to believe him.

It doesn’t make sense. But Sam can’t not. He won’t betray Dean all over again by doubting him.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, OK.”

Dean lets go of him and Sam folds forward, head between his knees, the way you’re supposed to if you feel faint. His phone gleams dully up at him from the asphalt. He picks it up, pushes buttons, but it’s dead now. That last fall killed it.

The message is still backed up, of course. But no, not really. It’s gone. One of Sam’s rocks -- ugly, razor-edged, but a fixed point -- gone. Sam’s not sure he can afford to lose his realities right now, even if they hurt, if they hurt like hell, even if they were lies. He cups the dead phone in his good hand.

That must be why he’s crying, because he’s lost something.

“Dude,” says Dean. He sounds incredulous, but he touches the side of Sam’s face once more, gently. Then he swings to his feet.

“If I’d known me being voicemail impersonated by evil supernatural beings would make you cry like a little girl, I’d never have let it happen,” he says. “Look, now we’ve got that out of the way, I think we should get to the ER. You don’t want to get blood poisoning or something. It’s a haunted house key. Who knows where it’s been.”

Which is fine, but Sam is still crying. Now that he’s started he can’t fucking stop. He’s not sobbing or anything, but the tears go on leaking out like blood that won’t clot while he gets turned round right way in his seat and closes the door, while Dean starts the car and backs out of the parking place. Dean doesn’t say anything more, doesn’t even look at Sam all through the drive to the hospital. Only once, stopped at a red light, he leans over and fishes a battered packet of kleenex out of the glove compartment, tosses it into Sam’s lap. Sam blows his nose. He’s getting a headache from the clogged pressure in his sinuses and his limbs feel like he’s swum for hours in salt water.

He doesn’t even listen to whatever it is Dean makes up to tell the doctors. Somehow he must have explained the sniveling headcase with a key through his hand to their satisfaction. At any rate, they don’t haul Sam off to a padded cell. He sits by Dean in the waiting area and trails after him when they’re called and holds out his hand when the doctor tells him to and lets them numb him with a local and pull out the key with forceps and flush the wound and bandage his hand again. The doctor tells Dean what kind of care the wound will need and what antibiotics she’s prescribing. Then Sam follows Dean again, through a long hall lit with glaring florescent fixtures, to the pharmacy. Then it’s out into the mercifully cool, dark parking lot and the car. Lucifer is nowhere to be seen. Maybe because Sam’s head is so empty.

It’s something about crying. Something about the surreal, analgesic aftermath of it, a kind of nostalgia, taking Sam back to when he stumbled everywhere in Dean’s wake in unthinking, absolute trust. Dean puts a hand on Sam’s shoulder to maneuver him into the car and Sam goes with it. The seat’s too small for him – Escorts aren’t exactly roomy – but the car is warm, Dean’s running the heat, and Sam drowses off as soon as the engine starts, drifts till they pull up at the motel. Dean’s got his palm on the small of Sam’s back the moment they’re out of the car, guiding him into the room and onto the bed farthest from the door. It’s ridiculous – it’s just a hurt hand, par for the course, Sam’s not about to shatter – but it’s also kind of nice.

Dean brings in the duffels and starts leafing through the menus in the little plastic stand. It’s nine or something. Sam’s not really hungry, but Dean probably wants dinner.

“So,” Dean says, “I’m thinking no more ghost-busting for tonight. Sweats, TV, pizza. No, Chinese. You and chopsticks and your left hand, that’s got more entertainment potential than Friday night broadcast.”

“Asshole,” says Sam.

Dean just throws sweatpants and a t-shirt at Sam’s head. He’s looking kind of -- hopeful? eager? – at the prospect of a night of bad food and bad TV and Sam. Something Sam hasn’t seen in a while. Since Bobby died. Since long before. His expression changes to a familiar trace of annoyance when Sam fumbles at his shirt buttons left-handed, squinting down to see what he’s doing.

“Here, let me,” says Dean. “You’re going cross-eyed.”

He sits down by Sam on the bed and starts efficiently unbuttoning his shirt, so close his breath is warm and sour in Sam’s face. Coffee and whisky, comforting and worrying. Except Sam can’t seem to worry; he’s still too muzzy-headed, emptied out, slipping back easily to Dean putting him to bed in a thousand dimly remembered rooms, when he was small. He barely has the energy to pull his shirt and tee off when Dean’s done with the buttons. Dean watches him with two little frown lines between his eyes.

“You all right, Lucifer-wise?” he says. “Seeing anything?”

“Not now,” says Sam. “He’s gone. Stepped out for a coffee break or something.”

Unless this whole thing, this respite, is another game, an illusion Lucifer’s building for the fun of shattering it. Sam peers at Dean, trying to see if the devil is in there, just waiting for the perfect moment to slip the mask of Dean’s face.

Dean must see Sam shrink back, must see something in his expression, because he grabs Sam’s bare shoulder, thumb stroking over the little circle of scarring from Bela’s long ago bullet.

“Hey,” Dean says, “Hey, it’s OK, it’s me.”

“You sure?” says Sam, and it’s supposed to be a joke, Dean’s not the only one who can do that, but it doesn’t come out that way, and Dean doesn’t smile.

“Yeah,” says Dean, “I’m sure,” and he leans forward and presses his lips over the scar.

Sam makes a strange, abortive noise, tips backwards and Dean goes with him, familiar smell and breathing weight, soft flannel and the hard coolness of his belt buckle just above Sam’s jeans. His lips brush along Sam’s collarbone and skim over his face, touching at his cheekbones, his temple, his eyelids, where the skin is still taut and oversensitive from his crying jag.

“Dude, you taste like a salt lick,” says Dean, and it doesn’t even seem weird, not when Dean’s hand tangles and strokes through Sam’s hair, not when his mouth settles over Sam’s.

It doesn’t register as kissing, not really. Just Dean, letting Sam know that he’s real. Letting him lick into his mouth and taste him, pull him closer and feel warm cloth all along his bare chest, letting him tug clumsily at Dean’s shirt till Dean breaks away for long enough to pull it over his head. Then Sam can run his left hand awkwardly over bone and muscle and smooth skin, the wiry hairs around Dean’s nipples, taut and erect when Sam brushes over them. Dean’s breath hitches. They’re both getting hard. Sam can feel the thick line of Dean’s cock against his thigh through their jeans. This should be freaking him the fuck out. But it’s just more, more real. He needs more real. The assurance of Dean under him, over him, skin against skin. He reaches down, tries to undo his jeans.

“I think we’ve established that buttons aren’t part of your current skill set,” says Dean breathlessly, and he tackles Sam’s belt, deals with button and zipper, pushes jeans and boxers down. Sam’s dick juts hard across his stomach, red and veined, damp at the crown. Dean touches it cautiously, delicately, watching Sam’s face. Sam cries out but it’s Dean whose breath is coming thick and fast as he smears his thumb over the slit, traces his fingers over the shivering skin of Sam’s stomach.

“You, too,” says Sam. “Dean, please, I’ve got, I’ve got to see. I need to know you’re real. I need you to be real. Dean.”

“Hey,” says Dean, “Shhh,” and he’s kissing Sam again, warm wet kisses along his neck and the corner of his jaw, his eyes, his mouth. Sam moans and arches up against him, denim a painful friction against his cock. He slides his good hand under Dean’s waistband, the elastic of his boxers, grabs at his ass, but it’s not enough. He wants his hand around the flesh of Dean’s cock, wants to feel the hot skin, to see Dean spill for him and come apart for him and still be there, still be real.

“Dean,” he says, and Dean nods, dives back in for one more quick, hard kiss, driving his tongue into Sam’s mouth till Sam is panting and tugging rhythmically at Dean’s ass to keep up the painful, throbbing pressure on his cock. Then Dean breaks away at last, shucks jeans and boxers. Finally there, finally, every inch of him for Sam to verify.

He looks a little spooked, sweat beading on his chest and a flush at his throat, dick rising from the mat of crisp dark hair to curve towards his belly, hand scrubbing over his face in a gesture of embarrassed uncertainty Sam’s seen a billion times. Sam is so hard it hurts, but it’s not sex he wants, it’s Dean, just Dean close, closer, here, real. He makes an inarticulate sound and Dean lies down beside him, touches his thumb to Sam’s lips, almost shyly. There’s six inches or so of air between them, an impossible space, a crack where things might not be real.

“What do you want, Sam?” Dean says, “Whatever you want. Just tell me.”

“You,” Sam says, “Just, you, close, please, Dean, Dean,” and he’s pulling Dean in, shaking all over, burying his nose in the sweat at the base of Dean’s shoulder. Dean’s arm goes around him instantly, fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of Sam’s neck, and he slings a leg over Sam’s hip so they’re lined up, Dean’s shaft hot against Sam’s, an unbearable intensity that makes Sam bite down on Dean’s neck, grip Dean’s ass again with nails digging in, fingers twisting flesh. His other hand wants to grope down but it’s still numb, a useless wad of bandages.

Dean grunts and nips at Sam’s ear, breath hot and damp, begins to rock against him, a steady motion, almost soothing, comforting, Dean taking care of him, way back at the foundation. Though everything’s sharp and bright now. Sam hears himself whimper high and breathy as his cock rubs against Dean’s. His balls are tightening, Dean drawing him in even tighter with legs and arms, the musk of Dean’s sweat, the salt taste in Sam’s mouth, breaking in a hot spurt of certainty, Dean, Dean, nothing else, nothing false, Dean. Through the loud blood in his ears he hears Dean panting and then a strangled shout as Dean strains against him and comes, a generous heat. Dean. Dean still rocking against him, slowly now, their dicks softening, the slick between them going lukewarm, Dean’s voice in his ear.

“Yeah, here you are, Sammy. Here I am. I’ve got you, OK? I’ve got you. This is real. This is me. This is real.”

It’s impossible, right now, to imagine Lucifer, or distrust, or hell.

Eventually the tight tangle of limbs gets uncomfortable. Sam shifts first, turning on his back, staring up at blank stucco ceiling. Dean moves his shoulder beside Sam’s so they’re touching, a hand still scritching absently in Sam’s hair. They’re naked and they just had sex and Sam’s got come drying itchily across his stomach and Dean just saved him from hell again and it feels _ordinary_. Sam is relaxed, deep down, in a way he hasn’t been in years. Rebuilt.

“We never ordered the Chinese,” says Dean at last.

“Not worth it,” says Sam. “It’s late. We can go out to breakfast in the morning.”

It’s only ten, but Dean doesn’t object, just nods and grunts, gets up and ambles into the bathroom. Sam hears him pissing, running water, washing up. Brushing his teeth. He turns out the overhead light on his way back, stands by the bed, face shadowed in the light from the nightstand lamp.

“You good?” he says, and Sam hears the trace of uncertainty in his voice.

“I’m good,” says Sam. “You get to sleep in the wet spot.”

There’s a whole other bed. Dean could take it, or they both could. But Dean settles down next to Sam with a faint, grossed-out grimace and a sigh that sounds like relief.

“ _Now_ I’m considering killing you,” Dean says, and Sam’s still smiling when he falls asleep.


End file.
